


of dust and blood

by fallingbird



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingbird/pseuds/fallingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of stories that has the cost of blood, but have never truly belonged here; they wither away to dust, and maybe that's how it was always meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this is how trust feels like nature

She loves the rain. Not a downpour, for that causes worry of pneumonia or stuffy noses with clogged minds, but the drizzle that washes over her slowly and effortlessly. Even if most days she’s affected by the mood of the camp and can’t help but feel dismal while she works under a gray sky, sometimes Clarke will lift her face and close her eyes to feel the rain cool her skin.

{{ she wonders if this is what an embrace should feel like  
    soothing and cooling until she feels the urge to smile }}

But the best type of rain is when the sun is still shining. That is the type she has always dreamed of, what she painted in the corner of her cell. It was always the hardest to capture, this contradiction of weather, but only now does she realize she never drew it right. After all, the greatest masterpieces were painted with emotion, and she could never fathom she would feel so wonderful on Earth.

Between her and the sky, she can compromise that Earth does good for them all.

Eyes fluttering open, she stands outside the drop ship reveling in the music the rain makes against the metal. She sees Octavia in the distance, smiling giddily at the sun and the rain, but really, nobody seems affected by the magic. Granted, this isn’t the first time this contradiction has made itself known, but to Clarke, the wonders have yet to fade.

But this is what makes her human, and maybe that’s why Finn cocks his brow at her after the fifth time she turns her face to the sky, or Raven snorts in that one, sharp huff of a breath and shakes her head. She is still seen as the princess, after all, and it must be odd for them to see her acting like a child with the rest of them. 

Yet Octavia knows the feeling, and she will lift one side of her mouth at an upward angle to Clarke, detailing just how loudly happiness can spark in one soundless motion. And sometimes, though she thinks it can’t be possible, Clarke catches a glimpse of Bellamy staring at her, brows furrowed, before turning to the sky. But it’s not a look of judgment. She doesn’t know  _what_ it is, but it’s not that. All she knows is that if she focuses on him for one moment too long, he turns away too quickly, barking an order at someone near. It’s another layer to Bellamy she can’t decipher, another point that’s proof she still doesn’t have permission to know the depth to the boy who so uncannily ( _but so gratefully_ ) became her partner in caring for those alive. 

But maybe it’s the little moments that matter with them. Maybe it’s the way, when she hears the music of the rain against the metal in the middle of the night, when she steps outside to see the bright moon in the clear sky, that she sees him leaning against the wall ( _with a gun steady in his hands, always protective, always guarded_ ) with his face to the sky. Maybe it’s how she believes that permission isn’t something granted, but something earned as she walks to the gate and climbs to his position. He doesn’t turn to her, but keeps his eyes closed as the water runs down his cheeks.

“You’re daydreaming on the job, Bell,” she murmurs, but there is an inch of a smile on her face because now she knows what she looks like in moments like these.

“They’re better dreams then you can ever create,” he clips back, but there’s no bite to it. Not anymore. And Clarke nods in agreement because he’s right in how they’re dreams; under the blanket painted with stars and the texture of rain, they are blissful, wonderful dreams. 

She raises her face to the sky too, and closes her eyes. There’s no sun gleaming red past her lids, but the soft maroon of the full moon, and yes, this tranquil feeling is just as soothing, just as cooling, but this embrace is like a whisper. And she tries to keep this whisper heard for as long as possible, because with her arm knocking against Bellamy’s, she wants this dream to last.


	2. a heart's cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( she cannot stop )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for for the flashfic contest at bellarkefanfiction on tumblr ( i originally wasn't going to do it but then i had 30 minutes of free time and challenged myself to see what i could write ).

Clarke’s love kills.

It doesn’t matter what manner she gives the fickle emotion; when night casts its shadow over her, there are more bodies surrounding her. There is a list she can review, if she decides to dwell ( and she does dwell, every night, trying to decide which stars belong to those she cared for ). Their faces flash before her vision at any given point, and she has long grown used to biting them back so she doesn’t stop.

( she cannot stop )

Sometimes, her father is in the distance, smile wide and arms stretched to her. But she closes her eyes, counts to three, and he is gone ( and her heart aches ). Atom is sometimes sitting as she sharpens her tools, blood dried and caked on his face, eyes listless even with the choking noises he makes. Like he is trying to breathe through a hole in his throat. He’s gone when she sticks her knife into the ground, stopping only when her hand grazes the dirt.

Finn is a constant figure, following her every footstep. He doesn’t relent; it’s like he knew she would falter when she decided love was a weakness. ( she thought it would be a better way not to lose anyone, she believed --- ) He tries to take her hand when she is walking beside Lexa, and she closes her hand to a fist as she raises her chin. She cannot be held back; she cannot stop.

But people still die. No matter how hard she tries, the bodies pile up, and she steps back into the claws of what ifs, allowing herself to be cut and cut again. Yet she cannot stop, because if she does, what was the point? What was the point of anything she did?

She doesn’t say that to Bellamy when she stands before him again. She doesn’t talk about her hurt, only of decisions, and they are thrown back in her face. She did it because she had to; she left because if she stayed, they would have fallen.

She loves too much. And she thinks Bellamy knows this, believes that he does when he crouches and takes her hand. And there is a spark of hope, that maybe he understands, that maybe this time, no one else she loves will die, that maybe her love won’t kill him, and maybe they ----

He releases her hand.

Clarke’s love is a killing thing, and even when people are still breathing, it kills her over and over again.


End file.
